


Lifting the Veil

by MartinusMiraculorum



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 13:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartinusMiraculorum/pseuds/MartinusMiraculorum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold James Potter has been virtually imprisoned in his family's own manor house by his avaricious uncle for most of his life. When a merchant and his remarkable daughter turn up on his doorstep, his world begins to make sense for the first time, even as it changes forever. </p><p>HP AU set c. 1125, exploring Hogwarts as a quasi-Medieval University, with most canon characters likely to make an appearance in one form or another. More-or-less authentic dynamics of medieval religion and religious authority, ethnic tensions, and political turmoil within 12th century England (and France) will be directly addressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lifting the Veil

As the world awakened from its nightly slumber, golden beams of sunlight slid up from the rolling moors to illuminate the terraced ridges of uneven stone, above which perched the imposing manor house. Light spilled through the slits of windows shuttered against the wind. Gradually, splashes of gold spilled onto beds and found the occupants fighting for just another few minutes of rest. Elsewhere, the light found the open window in the tallest tower, planted at the eastern edge of the rocky embankment, commanding an impressive view of the surrounding countryside. The bed bore all the signs of having been occupied by one whose sleeping habits could scarcely be described as ‘fitful’.

Lord Potter, known for most of his life as Vernon Dursley of less than memorable lineage and considerable girth, rolled over in bed. The wooden frame of the elaborate canopied bed groaned with its shifting burden, inadvertently pulling his slumbering wife from her own dreams. With a muttered epithet and no small amount of strained effort, the effective head of household seized the curtain facing the window with a meaty hand and tried to put it back where it  _should_ have been, blocking the intrusive and unwanted light from the couple. His limbs were deadened by sleep and a mild pulsing in his temples, his actions were clumsy, and he managed to pull the curtain only a third of the way across before there was the unmistakable sound of fabric tearing.

Nonetheless, the sun was now obscured by the partially drawn curtain, and no longer impeding Vernon’s quest for just a little more rest. His wife winced at the sound of the damage her husband had done, but her concern was quickly eroded by apathy. It had been a long time since she had really cared about anyone besides the child she and Vernon had made together, at least enough to stand up and do something about it.

Dawn found the boy who lived in the tallest tower of the manor at a finely made table, streaming in through the mosaic of stained glass windows that decorate the west and east of the rectangular room adjacent to the main hall.  
   
A flicker of irritation crossed the young face as he had to squint to make out the text of the beautifully appointed tome that lay on the table before him. He was rapidly approaching the age between true youth and blessings and curses of maturity. He wore his dark hair short by some standards, but the mass of tangled was thick enough in front to shadow his face. He had the well-defined, bony features of someone probably didn’t eat as much, or as well, as he should. His eyes, when the light struck them, were a most extraordinary emerald, but unfocused, almost straining in their sockets. The robes he wore were practical but also beginning to show their age, loose threads hanging from sleeves and patches of faded color where the dark blue cloth had nearly been worn down to his pale skin.  
   
Blinking, the young man looked away from the book in which he was so thoroughly engrossed and, like a bad habit he’d never been able to shake, looked towards the beautifully painted flower motifs of the windows and the rising sun beyond. Or he would have were he able. He knew the details of the window decoration, the tendrils winding slow circles around pale pink lilies; he had traced the lead that held the pieces of glass together, run his fingers gently over the paint that granted their extraordinary beauty.  
   
But now he could see none of that. Oh, he knew he was looking at the window, and knew that if God had blessed him with even poor sight he could find the lilies that reminded him of a mother he had never known, but such was not the way of things. What he saw was a grey darkness broken by a blur of brilliant light, beautiful in its own way, to be sure, but void of detail, of texture, of even the most bold discerning features.  
   
This was how Harold James Potter, orphaned son of Lord James of an ancient line and Lady Lily of far more recent peerage, saw the world beyond the length of his bony arm. Even at that short distance, the fingers of his hand blurred such that were he to guess, he would certainly think he had more than five.  
   
It had been a particular kind of cruelty when Vernon, Harry’s uncle by marriage and the closest male relative of the Potter line above the age of majority, had announced that he and his cousins ought to switch rooms. While it might have been assumed that as the heir to the Potter line and fortune, Harold would be deserving of the larger chamber, it was, so said Vernon, offset by the unparalleled view of the countryside for countless miles.  
   
Someday, perhaps not so soon, Vernon would live to rue that decision, and many others.  
   
For now, Harry read. It was perhaps his sole comfort. The temptation of the world beyond was spoiled by the fact that, as such an important child, he was only scarcely allowed out into the world, with its dangers and terrors that could erase the Potter line in one unfortunate mishap. And since Vernon was related to the Potters not only through the female line, but by marriage, there was a very real possibility that the king might revoke the caretaker’s rights of the so-called Lord Potter, and assign the house and its rich mineral deposits to one who had recently earned his favor, or one whose loyalty he wished to ensure. But as long as Harry lived, laws older than the kingdom excluded this possibility.  
   
So Vernon Dursley and Lady Petunia, as she fancied herself, and young ‘Lord’ Dudley had every reason to keep Harry alive, relatively well-fed, and healthy. No one said anything about his happiness.  
   
Six years ago, Harry had finally learned to read and write with the help of a sympathetic priest called Remus, his uncle had been outraged when he was caught perusing the score or so of priceless codices and dozens of rolled manuscripts that decorated the shelves. Yet Harry had known from the first time he laid eyes on the shelves that they were incomplete. Conspicuous gaps separated books of laws from a prized copy of Bede’s _Ecclesiastical History_ , a short text on heraldry from a truly irreplaceable copy of Aristotle’s  _Poetics_. There had been more books here once. Perhaps they had been sold but Harry was skeptical of this – his uncle was a terrible man but he was also an effective and ambitious administrator. They had never lacked for money.  
   
Even so, it had been his uncle’s verbal tirade and threats that had snapped something within him. And from that moment Harry had known he wasn’t like them. It wasn’t that he was a Potter and they were generations removed from complete obscurity. He  _was_ different. He knew that as sure as he knew his own name at the moment his uncle was hurled back through the doorway as a whirlwind swirled around a ten-year old boy, his face tracked with tears and his eyes burning with a terrifying power.  
   
That day had changed everything. In the end it was both a blessing and a curse. Vernon feared him, but he hated him as well. Petunia preferred to forget it had ever happened. And Dudley, well, Harry still wasn’t sure how much the boy had seen or heard. But apparently it wasn’t enough to keep him from compulsively pulling the tail of the wolf (or demon, if you asked Vernon, and Harry never did).  Dudley was cruel but stupid, and Harry had long since learned exactly how to deal with his behavior. Vernon and Petunia were miserable creatures, but it could not be said they did not love their son dearly, and Harry more than suspected if he were to do his cousin serious harm even Harry’s claim might not save him. And so he tolerated some of it, avoided more, and once in a while stung Dudley in ways that left the other boy chastened but unharmed.  
   
He wished he knew more about what had happened that day. And about the small things that continued to happen, little feats of otherworldly power that swelled and ebbed with Harry’s moods, but sometimes manifested entirely unbidden. He wanted to ask Remus, who he remembered a kind man with a weary face and thinning, greying hair though he could be no older than Vernon. The only man of the cloth who had ever really earned Harry’s respect. He had spoken about the whims of fate and the curses and disadvantages that God had laid upon men, but he had insisted that there was always a way to overcome these. You just had to find it, and stick with it, and give yourself over to it until it was a part of you.  
   
But Remus was two years gone. There had been an incident of some sort on the night of a full moon, and the following day Harry had knocked on his door and been greeted by an older, gruffer man, who told him that Remus had been reassigned and that he was far too busy to be bothered by a child’s petty concerns.  
   
He was brought from his reverie by the sound of activity in the courtyard. There was, of course, a handful of grooms, cooks, maids, and other serving folk in the manor – while by no means a large structure, it was not as though the Dursleys could be asked to take care of themselves. But this was more than the normal pitter-patter of footsteps and hushed voices. He heard…horses. And the unmistakable raised voices of a brewing row.  
   
He moved to rise, and then, deciding he would be better off, carefully closed the book before him, and brought it on legs stiff with hours of disuse back to the nearest bookcase. Vernon knew he often read when the rest of the castle slept, but there was no need to remind him of Harry’s nightly rebellion.  
   
His respect for his aunt and uncle’s sense of propriety only went so far. Even as a voice told him to retire to his chamber and dress properly, including boots to traverse the muddy grounds, he was moving barefoot through the great hall and through a side corridor to a small stone archway. He reached out a hand and touched the locking mechanism, and smiled with satisfaction as it clicked open. It always did. For him, at least. It was another little thing he could not fully explain.  
   
He emerged near the stables, and got a grin from Alfred, the apprentice groom. A bit older (and taller) than Harry, with shaggy blonde hair and a kindhearted if simple nature, he was only mildly surprised to see the heir to the Potter line barefoot, wearing a thin robe and baggy trousers, emerging from a door that was not supposed to open.  
   
He waved a greeting. “m’lord, good day tae yeh. I ‘spect yeh are goin’ doon tae see what’s about?”  
   
It had taken Harry some time to fully grasp the boy’s odd accent in his native tongue. But he rarely turned down a challenge, especially one that won him a friendly face with which to trade idle chatter. Well, as long as Roger didn’t catch him slacking off. He was perfectly respectful to Harry, but his eyes, his posture, his voice were angry when directed towards Al.  
   
“That’s right,” Harry said. “Roger’s already down there, I suppose? I didn’t know we were running low on anything.”  
   
“Well, yeh know, I s’been a wet week. Roads ‘ave been poor this last month, truly.” He shrugged casually.  
   
It was another thing they had in common. Al was kept just as in the dark about the affairs of the manor by Roger as Harry was by Vernon and Petunia.  
   
Still, he looked forward to these days. Because they were a good three leagues from the small village of Godric’s Hollow, and at least ten from the mines at Sayderbrook, basic supplies of food and clothing and raw materials had to be brought directly to the manor. They were fortunate enough to have a well, or they might have relied on the outside for water as well.  _And ours is good to drink_ , Harry thought. There were, he supposed, a lot of things that could have been worse.  
   
“I’m going to go meet the visitors…and possibly break up a fight, by the sounds of it,” Harry said, as the volume of the voices arguing down the hill, probably at the main gate, had only increased in the last minute.  
   
Al put out his hands and said something Harry didn’t quite catch. But he waved and Al smiled that broad, toothy smile of his, and got back to mucking the stables with more enthusiasm than Harry would have thought possible.  
   
He had not been wrong about the fight. As he danced down the path that would its way through the rocky terraces to a modest gatehouse, moving slowly to avoid tripping or injuring his feet, he saw a what was probably a wagon and supply train. His ears told them there were at least two draft horses, the one who had started the trouble was Denis Polkiss, the head of the four-man guard unit his uncle liked to call a ‘garrison’. As he got closer, voices became words and blurs became figures.  
   
“…we’ve had this arrangement for four months now. And here I was thinking you would be flattered by my delivering the goods in person. Do I look like a bandit to you?” The merchant’s voice was calm, refined, professional.  
   
“I’ve never seen you before in my life, I said, and there are strange people about, and I’m not letting you go another foot until the Lord of the Manor gives me permission. You bastard, you’re lucky you and your pretty little daughter didn’t get all feathered coming up to a castle like this, bold as William himself, and-“  
   
Before the overzealous beady-eyed sentry could continue, Harry cut him off with a tone of voice that did not accommodate an argument. “Polkiss, you know well that my uncle is abed. Let the man through.”  
   
Astonishingly (or perhaps not), Polkiss tried to argue. “Now, m’lord, you don’t know the truth of things out here, and I’m in charge of this here gate and I swear in Christ’s name that I won’t-“  
   
“What you  _won’t_ do is argue with the heir to the fortune that pays your retainer. Open the gate. Now.” There was something deeply unpleasant in Harry’s voice when he said the last, a not-so-veiled threat that should have sounded absurd coming from an adolescent.  
   
It didn’t.  
   
Silently, the glorified guardsman began to haul the wooden portcullis free of the mud, and the blurred outline of two horses, an open-topped wagon, and a heavily laden cart passed through the outer gate into the courtyard, where several men waited to haul the supplies to the cellar.  
   
Polkiss muttered something rather appalling, but Harry ignored him, instead stepping towards the figure who seemed to be the merchant.  
   
As Harry drew within a few paces of him, more details emerged as if from a fog. He was maybe thirty, thick and curly brown hair, brown beard. He carried himself with dignity and confidence, that much Harry could tell. “Well good day, my lord. I cannot say I expected you here.”  
   
He spoke the language of the Normans, and with a crispness and precision that marked it as his native tongue.  
   
“I am a light sleeper,” Harry said. “And it seemed as though a mediator was needed. I must apologize for his behavior – he’s a favorite of my uncle, though why I cannot say.”  
   
“I actually expected the supply order a fortnight ago. I expect you must have been running low on luxuries for some time now. Certainly you couldn’t have been eating much more than bread.”  
   
Harry shrugged. “I’m also sorry your daughter had to hear that.”  
   
The merchant laughed. “Rest assured, she’s no wilting flower. Come on out, then, this is one of the nicer lordlings I’ve had the pleasure to meet.”  
   
Harry saw a flicker of movement from the back of the wagon, and it eventually resolved itself into a girl with long, bushy hair the same shade as her father’s. And in her hand… “Have you got a book there?” He tried to make it sound conversational, casual, as if he was asking something he already knew. The truth, of course, was that he couldn’t be sure from this distance.  
   
“It is,” a bright voice answered. “Father had me learn to read as soon as I was able. He has no time for men who think women incapable of learning.”  
   
The merchant chuckled again, as if he had heard this many times before. “You’ll have to excuse my Hermione here. She’s a strong willed girl.”  
   
“I couldn’t agree with her more,” Harry said simply. He thought Hermione grinned widely at that. Again, it was hard to tell. Just another few paces and he could almost certainly make it out, but she was holding back. As was expected – she was a merchant’s daughter and he was the heir to a great fortune. Yet one more time, Harry found himself less than concerned with propriety.  
   
“So you read as well?” she said. “Or, rather, you read for pleasure? You study? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply I expected you to be unlearned.” Her blush was deep enough that even Harry noticed it.  
   
“No, it’s fine,” he said, reassuring her. “My cousin cannot be described as literate, and he grew up in the same household. It’s not an unreasonable assumption.”  
   
“What do you read? I do love stories, especially of great men of Christ and holy women and the miracles they do. I want to be like them.”  
   
“Oh,” Harry said. He was not sure what one said to such a declaration. The stories of saints had always seemed so far-fetched to him. And men had a tendency to exaggerate what they did not understand.  
   
The merchant shifted slightly, uneasy. “Well, first off, I’m not sure we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Gregorie. Gregorie Grainger. And I think these fine fellows have been waiting for your leave to unload the supplies. I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but if you desired, my lord, my daughter could join you for a walk around the grounds while the work is done.”  
   
“As if you have a choice in the matter!” Hermione said indignantly. “I do not need your permission to do anything of the sort.”  
   
Harry smiled. He  _liked_ this girl. He gestured up the path, and Hermione followed him with a spring in her step. Carefully, not wanting to trip in front of a stranger, he found a seat on a low wall near the gate, and motioned her to join him. She did so gracefully. After a moment’s hesitation, Harry moved himself closer to her. He knew it might be seen as forward or overly friendly, but the truth was he desperately wanted to see this girl. And so her features sharpened. She had a quirked smile and teeth that stuck out just a bit farther than they should have. Her eyes were brown, warm and wise. She was pretty, in her own way. Her appearance suited her. Whatever that meant.  
   
“So what is it you’re reading?” he asked, after a moment’s uncomfortable silence.  
   
Another smile. “Oh, it’s silly really. It’s not, you know, a real book, it’s just some stories my mum wrote down on old parchment a few years before she passed. She was always a bit frail, and I was still just a girl, and she wanted to leave something for me, because I used to love her stories so much. They remind me of her.”  
   
“That’s nice,” Harry said, a bit lamely. “Really, that’s great. Your mother sounds like she was a remarkable woman. And literate as well?”  
   
“Not in Latin,” Hermione admitted. “But she never believed that it should be the only language in which things were written down.”  
   
“Could I see it?” Harry asked hesitantly. There was something so disarming about this conversation – rank and birth and blood were supposed to be so important but Hermione spoke to him as she would any other boy his age. Perhaps he ought to have been offended. In a way he was flattered.  
   
She cocked her head slightly. “I suppose.” But she offered it to him.  
   
Harry reached out to take hold of it. But in his nervous excitement he misjudged the edge, and felt the book’s leather case slip from his fingers. He let out a cry of dismay, and then suddenly he saw the book stop falling and fly right into his open hand.  
   
He looked at Hermione, dreading her reaction. To his stunned disbelief she clapped her hands with glee. “Oh my goodness, I suppose I will get to see you again then! Perhaps God does reward those who wait.”  
   
Harry blinked. “I’m sorry?”  
   
“Well you’ll be going to school, of course. Someone of your background can easily afford tuition and it’s expected, really. My father has an agreement with the archbishop of our city. I had a chance to show them what I could do, and they were so impressed that they offered to help fund my education. Some expressed doubts because of my sex, of course, but they could hardly argue with results. Oh, goodness I’m so excited, I spoke with a graduate a fortnight ago and he just made it sound, well,  _magical_. Oh, Harry, I’m so glad you’ll be there too!”  
   
Harry held up his hands. “Hermione. What are you talking about? Why would I go to University? I’m far too young; I only turned fourteen days ago! And they don’t take girls, not normally? Besides I doubt my uncle would send me so far as Paris.”  
   
“Paris?” Hermione asked, baffled. Then something seemed to dawn on her. “Harry, don’t you know what you _are?_ ”

 


End file.
